Virtue
by Blaze Eos 0204
Summary: Shaking hands undid the tie in the front of the dress, and reached back to slip the zipper down. The warm skin protested at being bared. Goosebumps erupted across her skin, her breast tightened from fear, nipples beaded from cold. 'You haven't done this before, have you,' he asked softly...
1. Chapter 1

**I started writing this one for "Beyond the bedroom contest" but things happened and I couldn't finish this within the time frame. I don't know what this is, because frankly speaking, this is far different from my usual stuff. So, I'm a bit apprehensive but I can't hide it forever in my drive. Like persistent little itch, it keeps sneaking on me.**

 **This is unbetaed, so mistakes are mine and mine alone.**

 **Don't own Twilight, never did, but wish I could. But then don't we all?**

* * *

 _ **Chapter 1**_

She'd grown up amid the sounds of sex, the smell of it.

The whimpers of deflowered virgins, the grunts of men taking out their frustrations on the bodies they'd paid for, the feigned moans that covered the sighs of boredom—she'd heard it all through paper thin walls and slightly ajar doors.

Despite growing up in a bordello, her mother had managed to keep some part of her naivety and her entire virginity intact. Madame had wanted to push her into the business too, but somehow Renee had always managed to appease the old crone.

Not anymore.

It was three hours since they'd buried her mother below a modest headstone she'd insisted on, and here she sat—painted and transformed—with other girls who'd already spent numerous nights on their backs.

She wanted to go back to the small room she'd occupied with her mother—the room that smelled of cheap makeup and expensive perfume that one of her many patrons had gifted her. But she couldn't even move an inch from her place. Madame sat high up in the gallery, her beady eyes fastened on Renee's daughter.

Renee's daughter.

That was who she'd been, and it had been comforting. Rather than having an identity, she'd been happy when people had known her by her mother's name, but not anymore.

Unlike many people, she had never been ashamed of her mother.

But in this moment, she was ashamed of herself.

The sound of locks turning drew her gaze to the ornate door that was being opened for patrons. Outside, the sky had taken on the dark bluish color of the evening intercepted by slashes of orange and pink.

She knew it was futile to hope that no one would want her.

The dress that she'd been pushed into was a size too small. The dark fabric stretched over her breasts barely covering her nipples. Her face had been dusted with glitter to make the paleness of her skin seem like ivory. Crimson was the color that had been used liberally on her lips. Her eyes had been given the smoky effect by abundant use of kohl and eye-shadow.

She wanted to rub her eyes but she knew the punishment for it, and hence she sat in the pose she'd been made to sit.

The waist of this dress cinched and taking every breath was a task in futility.

She was just a body, and tonight a man was going to use her…

* * *

He'd drawn her eye as soon as he'd entered through the fake gold doors.

Unlike others who'd come with a leery look in their eyes and about to salivate mouths, he looked lost and out of place.

What had made him come here?

Was it sorrow?

Anger?

Betrayal?

He was a tall man, much taller than Madame's disreputable aide.

If Roman generals existed in this era, he would have been one. His face was all sharp lines, and aristocratic angles. The almost straight nose was the only thing on his face that wasn't perfect, but even that slight imperfection made his face unforgettable.

Full lips that were too sad to be here and brilliant green eyes—eyes that were staring at her.

He took his time as walked towards her. Controlled, measured strides spoke of an innate discipline and that rigid posture bespoke his discomfort.

She could feel all eyes on her and on him too, and she wondered if he was someone well known. With a face like that—he had to be.

He produced a bill of hundred and she got up like an automaton—devoid of the grace Madame had tried to instill in her with threats of rape and torture.

She knew which room she'd to take him to, and for a moment she wondered if she could make a run for her freedom. But the tap of heels descending the stairs crushed the feeble hope. Madame was coming down, and her ruination was almost upon her…

* * *

Her thoughts were turbulent, and the storm in her head became deafening as he closed the door. Madame had escorted them herself to the best private suit this place boasted.

He was someone important.

Madame didn't deign to come down from her throne for any ordinary clerk, drunkard, mobster or drug peddler.

Even though Madame's bordello was one classy establishment, all sorts of clients were permitted inside its premises as long as they could pay, and as long as they didn't step outside the line Madame had drawn.

He cleared his throat. Did he want to say something?

Did he want her to strip?

She raised her head and looked at him but he wasn't looking at her.

There was a weight on his shoulders—a weight that was suffocating him. She could feel it because she carried the same load, the same tiring burden.

He walked towards the bed and sat unceremoniously. Eyes trained on his hands, he examined them as if they weren't his.

'What happened?' she couldn't stop herself from asking.

He looked at her in surprise and uttered, 'life.'

His sorrow was far more palpable than hers. Cream, powder, lotions—they'd covered the smell of her fear. But this man didn't know what to do with his.

She inched towards the bed to where he sat—this lonesome man with grieving green eyes.

'What did you do?'

'Everything…'

It was an instinct that had her encircling her arms around his neck. It was an instinct that made him raise his head to look into her eyes.

'Can you make me forget?' he asked.

She didn't know how, but how could she deny him?

He'd paid for her.

And he was wounded.

Maybe the naivety was there in her touch, maybe it was there on her painted face. The moment she raised her hand to touch his lips, he took her hands in his.

'I don't want seduction.'

'Is this seduction?' she asked honestly. Was touch seduction?

How was she to know?

'You don't know?' His mocking question hurt and she wasn't experienced enough to hide the emotion.

She shook her head, for she feared her voice would waver if she spoke.

'Strip,' he commanded as he released her hands.

The word was nothing less than a hit of the whip.

Shaking hands undid the tie in the front of the dress, and reached back to slip the zipper down. The warm skin protested at being bared. Goosebumps erupted across her skin, her breast tightened from fear, nipples beaded from cold.

'You haven't done this before, have you?' he asked softly.

She took a moment before nodding. Shaking her head would sign her death sentence.

Madame didn't look too kindly on the girls who lost clients.

'Liar,' he chided. 'Come here.'

He beckoned her closer and her legs moved to do his bidding.

He'd paid for her.

He made her sit beside him on the bed in her partially gaping dress that gave a peek at the low cut of flimsy lingerie. His fingers pushed her chin up, and her startled eyes met his.

'Will you tell me your name?'

Her name?

Were whores allowed to have names?

She'd a name before she'd been waxed and painted, before Madame had pushed her into the mold of every woman who called this place a home.

'No.'

'Do you know mine?'

She shook her head.

He laughed. It was a nice sound. It reminded her of nights she'd spent reading about princes, fairy tales, and exotic mysterious places while her mother slept beside her.

'It's Edward. I don't think I've come across anyone who didn't know me.'

'Did you come here because you didn't want anyone to recognize you?'

The light of amusement left his eyes.

'I wanted to escape,' he whispered.

'I can't escape,' she said in return.

His fingers rose to trace her face. The fingers moved over the closed lids of her kohled eyes, the tips smudging the colors. They moved downwards, the dark color staining the bridge of her softly glittering nose.

The fingers settled on her red lips.

The heat of the touch made her want to squirm but she sat still as silence reigned.

His thumb swiped across her lower lip, the pressure almost making her sigh.

When his thumb left her lip, it was smudged with red.

He wiped away the lip color of her top lip with the same thumb all the while his eyes kept staring into hers.

She must look a sight—ruined makeup heralding the state of her virtue.

'My wife left me.' It was a quiet admission, a truth he'd not uttered even to himself prior to this moment.

'Did you love her?'

He must have, she concluded, for what could make a man so sad except for the broken heart.

'I thought I did,' he said monotonously. The bland voice hid the hurt, the apparent sting of the betrayal. His hands pushed away from the straps on her shoulders, fingers tracing the place where the bra strap dug into her skin.

'You didn't ask why she was leaving you?' He undid the clasp of the bra, leaving her bare from the waist up.

'I didn't think I could listen to her excuse after I found her with my brother.'

The gasp escaped from her throat.

He paused in his ministrations. 'Lust trumps love, doesn't it?'

'No,' she denied vehemently. His fingers danced on her collar bone; barely there touches heating her skin and making her shiver at the same time. 'Love isn't fickle enough to be swayed by needs of one's body.'

'Isn't it?' Those fingers grazed one of her nipples and she drew back in response.

He was looking intently at her. Her wide, scared eyes looked back at him; words that had been poised on her lips to escape were forgotten.

'Isn't love in the moans of a woman and in marks of her passion on a man's skin?'

He drew her closer again, this time her hands were captive in one of his.

'Isn't love in the first kiss of a virgin?' he asked as he made her lie on the bed, her feet dangling from the edge.

He moved over her, straddled her, and stretched her arms over her head. 'Isn't love in the eyes of a willing girl?'

His head dipped, and his nose traced the line of her cheek. He smelled of sage and woods—a smell she was sure hadn't come out of any expensive bottle.

'Isn't love in the fervent copulation of new lovers?' His lips moved over her face, never pausing long enough to kiss.

Was this how every man treated a woman?

Then why had she heard only grunts and whimpers?

'Isn't love in every first kiss?' he asked gently before his lips settled on hers.

No, there was no love in kisses shared in these rooms.

His kiss was the dreams she'd never allowed herself to indulge in—the hopeful sagas where happy endings were guaranteed. The slow perusal of her lips was a new experience, one she'd never thought she would have.

His mouth courted hers.

In brief gentle touches, he taught her seduction.

The bite on her lower lip, the way his teeth sank into the soft flesh made her moan.

She'd shuddered at the thought of moaning, once.

His tongue traced the bite—she could imagine that the touch was almost loving—and soothed the abused lip. Her body lost the rigidity of awkwardness and she relaxed in the cage of his body.

His eyes held hers as his tongue slipped in her mouth—a bold brazen act she couldn't shy away from.

He tasted her, and after few moments she grew bold enough to return the favor.

He tasted of freedom, of rebellion she couldn't partake from. His taste lingered on her tongue like hope.

He rolled, taking her on top while he lay beneath her. The sudden movement took her mouth away from him, the absence almost painful.

She was stretched on top of him, her every curve cradled in the hard plane of his physique. Her breasts rubbed against the soft cloth of his shirt and the sensation jolted her.

'So, what brought you here?' he enquired as his hands settled on her back.

He was aroused; she could feel it, stretched as she was on him. Then why was he not tearing her clothes and pushing his cock inside her?

Why was he not using her like every woman beneath this roof was used?

His tap on her spine made her look at him again. Oh, he'd asked a question, hadn't he?

'What brings women to places like these?' she asked in return.

'A bastard man who swears he loves the women before fucking and dumping her,' he answered.

'That,' she said, touching his cheek and feeling the shadow of his beard.

His fingers moved nimbly over every protrusion of her spine bone, his feet rubbing against her calf.

When had he toed his shoes off?

He closed his eyes, his fingers kept moving on her back.

She could do nothing but touch his face, feel the skin, the lips, the eyes, the forehead.

'Aren't you—'

'This is the first time I've been able to close my eyes in five days.'

'Then at least settle properly in the bed,' she reprimanded. 'Half of your body is hanging off from the bed.'

'I like it like that.' His lips curved slightly, his eyes still closed.

She tried to move away. Surely what did he need her for if he was going to sleep? But his hands tightened in the response of her wiggling.

'Stay,' he said.

After that, no words were spoken. The silence wasn't choking, it was rather pleasant.

She laid her head on his chest, her eyes closing on their own volition.

It was nice to fall asleep to the sound of someone's heartbeat…

* * *

 **Reviews, anyone?**


	2. Chapter 2

**So, thanks a lot for the reviews. I couldn't have expected such a response even in my wildest dreams. Awesome Sunflower Fran betaed this chapter for me. She's a real life-saver. I made some minor changes in the chapter after she sent it back because I'm a dick, so mistakes are my own.**

 **Being Stephenie Meyer is out of question, so owning Twilight is just a daydream...**

* * *

Chapter Two

 _Another night._

 _Same man._

This time she was pinned against the door, her clothes rumpled but the zipper of her dress still fastened, make-up intact except for her smudged red lip color.

She'd not expected him to come again.

But here he was—staring at her like a man of faith looked at a miracle; like the devil must have looked at Lilith.

"You don't look sad," she said as her fingers touched his lips; the lips that she'd not been able to forget.

"I'm not."

"Did you come here again to escape?" she asked.

"I came here for you," he replied softly, forehead propped against hers.

"Why?"

He nuzzled the arch of her neck in answer, hands busying themselves with the zipper at the back. This time her fingers rose tentatively to slip the buttons of his shirt out of their holes. His hands stilled, and hers did too. Was she not supposed to undress him?

"She used to tear up the buttons," he reminisced.

"I'm not her," she reminded him softly.

"I know." He resumed his earlier task, and after sometime, she too went back to hers.

 _What were they doing?_

 _Why were they doing this?_

 _She could understand her reasons, but his?_

 _It was obvious that he was still in love with his wife._

 _Was she just another body being used for someone else?_ No matter how gentle he was, no matter how considerate—she was being used, wasn't she?

The last button of his shirt gave away beneath her ministrations, and she parted the cloth to reveal an impressive musculature underneath.

Was her hand shaking? She could feel the minuscule tremors as she touched his chest.

The skin was soft, the muscles beneath it hard.

The dark hair that covered his chest, it narrowed down near his stomach only to disappear beneath his trousers. How different were the bodies of a man and a woman. His had been designed to conquer, hers to submit.

She stepped out of her dress, only to stand in a barely-there thong in front of him.

She knew what he was witnessing. The smooth long limbs, the perfect pale skin, the high breasts, the pink nipples, the damning blush. Her eyes were downcast, they had to be. She'd never undressed for anyone.

Had he done what every other man who came here did, it wouldn't have been so mortifying.

"Look at me," he commanded.

There was something unholy in his eyes—a madness that had no name. It wasn't mere animalistic lust, neither was it tempered with tenderness.

He didn't make any effort to touch her, he just looked. His gaze roamed over every exposed part of her and somehow she felt branded.

His eyes were possessive as if she were his and only his.

 _But whores weren't anyone's, were they?_

With his eyes trained on hers, he dipped his head and covered her lips with his. They stared at one another while he kissed her, licked her lips and sampled a bite. She liked the way he kissed. Leisurely, and yet with passion in every slight touch.

He walked them towards the bed, lips still tasting her, eyes still staring.

When her legs hit the edge, he pushed her back, and she fell on the soft mattress.

His hand unfastened the flap of his trousers, fingers drew down the zipper.

She closed her eyes.

The loud pounding of heart distracted her from the sound of his undressing. She'd never seen a man naked before in her life. Renee had managed to keep most part of her innocence intact. But right now she would give anything to be experienced, to not feel this embarrassment. Well, to think of it, she would give anything to be free, but freedom wasn't in her destiny, was it?

She gingerly opened her eyes and found herself staring at his—

"Still innocent in the ways of the world, aren't you?" He climbed on the bed in all his naked glory while she lay mostly naked except for the tiny thong.

The women in this place used many words to describe the male anatomy.

So, what should she call it?

It definitely wasn't a weenie, and neither was it a dong. Somehow, the words didn't suit the impressiveness of his phallus.

Phallus?

She looked at him again, eyes firmly fixed on his face. The smirk on his lips told the story of her inexperience that he found amazing.

"When I went back to my empty home today, it didn't feel like a mausoleum," he said as he plopped beside her. Head propped on an elbow, an indulgent smile gracing his lips—he was normalcy, something she'd never experienced, only read.

"Do homes feel like mausoleums?" she asked curiously as her legs tangled up with his.

"Yes, they do," he whispered, his nose skimming her throat.

There were no questions after that.

Skin met skin, hands explored curves and planes, bodies intertwined, teeth bruised lips.

She didn't know if this was the way one was supposed to have intercourse one had paid for. She didn't know if worshipping every inch of the body of the whore was the norm.

Somewhere along the way, in between those kisses, he divested her of her thong.

There was reverence in his kisses—a sweet supplication she knew she would never taste again. When his mouth closed over one of her breasts, she arched beneath him, gasping wildly, trying to reach a phantom completion she'd never known.

One of his hands touched the juncture of her thighs softly.

Even amidst such pleasure, she was conscious of his fingers that softly ran over her slit. She shuddered when he parted her folds and touched her clitoris.

Had she been someone else, she would have lost herself in pleasure, but these walls didn't let her forget where she was. Even when she closed her eyes and tried to drown herself in his touch, the smell of this place permeated her nose and reminded her that she was no ordinary woman enjoying her first time with a man she loved. She was a woman who'd met this man yesterday and was beneath him right now because he'd paid for her.

 _Was this how it was supposed to be?_

She hadn't realized that he'd stopped kissing her and his hands were no longer caressing her pussy.

"What happened?"

He looked at her as if he couldn't quite understand her. His eyes searched her face for something, some sign that she wasn't quite aware of.

"Where did you go?" he asked.

 _He'd noticed her non-participation?_

Girls who worked here said men never did.

"Nowhere," she answered.

"I think we are above lying to each other."

 _Would he understand if she told him?_

What could he change by understanding? He would be gone when morning broke over this bordello, and tomorrow he won't return. Why would he, after he'd enjoyed the novelty of fucking the virgin?

"It's nothing," she said at last.

He stared at her for the longest time. "These walls bothering you?"

 _How did he know?_

Maybe her bewilderment was written plainly on her face because he pulled her into his arms and tucked her close.

"Sometimes when I try to sleep in my bed, the walls close in on me too, and I can't breathe."

"I don't like this place," she confessed. "Even when you kiss me, I can't stop thinking about why you are here with me. I know it's stupid—"

His lips silenced her. This kiss was chaste—a barely there taste of his sincerity.

"Why am I here?" he asked after few moments.

"Because you need someone to fuck," she answered almost instantly and rued her answer when she saw his eyes dim, his mouth contort in the smallest of frowns.

It was as if he expected a different answer from her. What did he want her to say? That she had some far-fetched naïve notion that he'd come here to rescue her?

"If I wanted to fuck someone, I'd not need to come here. There are countless women who throw themselves at me because I'm who I am," he said cynically. "I came here to escape, but while trying to do that I found you, and I no longer felt like escaping." He looked at her tenderly, his eyes trying to tell her things she couldn't believe.

"And fucking you has been the farthest thing from my mind. When I touch you, passion yields to feelings. When I caress you, touch turns into tenderness."

"But I'm a whore," she said sadly.

"You're the brightest flicker of humanity that I have had the privilege to experience. Naivety becomes you, even when it's wrapped in a package of cynicism and artifice." He bestowed another kiss on her lips, a kiss that was making a dreamer out of her slowly.

 _But dreamers didn't survive in places like this._

Jaded hearts roamed the halls and corridors of this bordello. They wore the armor of cosmetics and shield of beauty to flay the invading men. They never managed to defeat the enemy, but they did survive.

"It's easy to give words when you know come the morning you'd not know me from Eve."

"So, my beauty wants a promise, does she?"He smiled as if he'd expected her answer, as if he knew every thought that was doing rounds in her head.

"Who am I to demand promises? I'm a whore's daughter—" she flinched, for that word in reference to her mother left a very bad taste in her mouth, "—and I'm destined to die here."

"You shouldn't use that word," he said.

"Why?"

"Women aren't whores, and men aren't saints."

"Not even your wife?"

"Not even my wife."

She didn't understand this man. For all his beauty and gentility, he behaved as if he was not of this world. Maybe he was some heavenly creature who'd come to comfort her.

As if she were lucky enough to be in the presence of ethereal creatures!

"I'll take you away from here."

Was she hearing things? Had her yearning made her crazy?

"Wh-what are you talking about?" she sputtered.

He laughed, a sound that did strange things to her body. She wanted to kiss him, straddle him and never let him get away from her. Maddening, right?

"It's a promise, beautiful."

"Promises are easily broken." Even as she was saying it, she wanted him to keep his promise.

"Not mine. I've never been truly happy in my life. The peace that I feel with you here is far more than I've ever felt."

"Not even when you thought you were in love with your wife?" she asked, hope carefully banked in her eyes.

"Not even then."

"What do we do now?" she had to inquire, for she didn't know how to proceed. When they were together, he drove out the stigma of being associated with this place.

"Hopefully, you are not too averse to this." His mouth covered hers as he straddled her again, a man so otherworldly that she wanted to close her eyes and drown in the feelings he was evoking.

"Eyes on my face, beautiful," he whispered as he peppered her face with butterfly kisses.

When his fingers danced softly on her mound this time, she opened her thighs and welcomed him. She writhed under him when one of his fingers probed inside. It was a curious feeling. A new, never felt before experience that she found she liked.

His tongue thrust into her mouth, an imitation of what his fingers were doing and she found herself shivering from pleasure.

His fingers curled inside her, and she cried out. She'd never felt pleasure so intense and raw. She'd read about the act of sex so many times and in so many settings, but the real thing was far more primal and tender than she would have ever thought.

Or maybe it was because Edward was making her feel that way.

Slowly and methodically, his mouth left her mouth and traveled to her collar bone and from there to her breasts where he licked, laved and bit. She was sobbing, begging, and clawing on his back for God knew what. His wicked mouth mapped her stomach, tiny little nips that were soothed by his tongue, sweet kisses that awakened something inside her.

They were two people lost in the magic of the other, lost in what they made each other feel.

Sex, now that she understood, wasn't only about the physical act of joining. What Edward was doing to her was a lesson—a lesson in the intricacies of pleasure.

His mouth kissed her slit and her back curved in an arch that was as sensuous as it was graceful. The flat surface of his tongue pressed against her folds, the tip tasting her clitoris. He opened her up like a flower, gently searching the secret heart of her with his tongue.

When his tongue dipped inside, a sigh left her lips.

She had wings, and she was flying.

Her fingers gripped his hair, tugged at it, demanded pleasure.

He didn't disappoint because his mouth made love to her pussy.

Soft, sweet, selfless love.

His teeth grazed over the swollen pearl, and she came apart.

It was as if she'd reached the zenith, seen God and experienced everything there was to experience. It was colors, words, and dreams. It was violent and gentle—this tugging inside her that tore her in two.

It was nirvana, or as close to it as she would ever reach.

"Edward." His name quietly slipped past her lips. Her heart was thudding, and if they tried to hear the beats, she was sure they would hear his name over and over again.

"Did you like it?" he asked as he crawled up her body. His lips were curved in one of those rare smiles that reached a man's eye.

Embarrassment colored her red, and she gave a small nod in lieu of a verbal answer.

"So, now do I get your name?"

"Bella."

"Bella," he repeated with that dopey smile on his face. "Bella. Beautiful."

He kissed her then—a sweet amalgam of teeth, tongue, and lips. It was a kiss she would always remember.

Her hands snaked across his chest, her palms brushing his nipples. He hissed, so she did it again. He flicked her nipples in retaliation and for a moment in pleasure, she forgot the pathway her hands had decided to take.

She felt his washboard hard abdomen, the grove of muscles carved and appearing to be made of stone. She luxuriated in the feel of his warm skin, and he sighed when she grew a little bolder, and her fingers followed the happy trail.

The first tentative touch of her fingers over his cock made him shudder. It was so different, now that she was touching him. He was hard, something that she'd expected and soft to touch—something that she'd not foreseen. The skin was stretched across his length, and the tip was wet. She touched his tip just to see what happened.

He groaned and held her hand before she could touch him again.

"Are you done exploring?"

"Can I…touch some more?" Her artless question had him groaning anew.

"Maybe…later," he murmured as he covered her body with his.

"But I want to," she pouted.

"You can conduct your experiments later, woman," he growled as the tip of his cock touched her folds.

She giggled and moaned in next instant when he pushed inside her.

She felt as if she was being forged anew. He was a tight fit, and she felt like she would burst.

He surged forward, breaking her hymen and she screamed.

This was pain—a visceral, sharp pain that reminded her that she'd lost something in this act.

"Sorry," he whispered. "It won't hurt anymore."

He kissed her sobs, took them for his own from her soft lips. It was some time before he moved, then he pulled himself completely out and thrust in again.

It was a sudden act, so sudden that her pain had no time to register to her senses.

She looked at him—this beautiful man with curiously colored, copper hair. Sweat beaded at his forehead and the tendons in his arms stood out. His green eyes were focused on her face, the expression in them unfathomable.

When he thrust again, she moaned. Her body left the surface of the bed to meet his, a perfect response to the question his body had asked.

She didn't know what she was doing. It was an instinct that made her meet him thrust for thrust, sigh for a sigh and moan for moan.

He started out with a gentle pace, but soon he was railing between her thighs as she flailed and tried to hold on to her senses. Soon she had no choice but to let go of the turbulence caused by the movement of their bodies.

Each stroke of his cock was bringing her closer to the high she'd experienced when he'd put his mouth on her pussy.

Her fingers left dents in his arms as she held on. He brought them closer to that epic high, that tug in her navel that had made her see colors and stars and supernovas. He bit her jugular and touched her where they were joined.

"Edward," she shouted.

She flew apart like a cloud, the thunder and lightning resonating in her veins.

It was completion, perfection, and her salvation.

"Bella," he moaned; her name a litany that fell sweetly from his lips.

He'd found his peace…

* * *

Morning sun saw them walking out of the bordello, hand in hand. His hair was all over the place, and his clothes were ruffled, but he sported a smile that was one of a kind.

She wore his jacket over her slinky dress that left little to the imagination. Her makeup was ruined, the mascara intact but lipstick smudged.

She didn't care.

The smile on her face was the twin of his.

People stared at them, but they didn't care.

He'd found hope, and she'd found freedom…

* * *

 **Did you like it?**

 **When I started writing this Bella, I'd no idea how to give her a happy ending she so desperately needed, but I'd like to think I did a good job.**

 **Till we meet again, my friends!  
**

 **Farewell...**


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